Ode To Emptiness

There was a time I’d think in rhyme and daydream in blank verse. O muse, you died; I’m sure I spied you leaving in a hearse. Methinks that I might force a try, put signs up in the yard: free room and board as a reward to lure a minstrel bard. O, whither go? A withered flow is all you’ve left behind: mere parlor tricks and limericks - to heights I’m disinclined. ’Twas once I’d soar, but now no more, seems I have crashed to earth, so I will till and toil until you germinate rebirth.